voice rose whining, and was drowned
by shouts of, "Go to your mammy. That's Noll Leslie all over. Butter
shins!"

Randal's sallow face became scarlet. "The jest of boors--a Leslie!" he
muttered, and ground his teeth. He sprang over the stile, and
walked erect and haughtily across the ground. The players cried out
indignantly. Randal raised his hat, and they recognized him, and stopped
the game. For him at least a certain respect was felt. Oliver turned
round quickly, and ran up to him. Randal caught his arm firmly, and
without saying a word to the rest, drew him away towards the house.
Oliver cast a regretful, lingering look behind him, rubbed his shins,
and then stole a timid glance towards Randal's severe and moody
countenance.

"You are not angry that I was playing at hockey with our neighbours,"
said he, deprecatingly, observing that Randal would not break the
silence.

"No," replied the elder brother; "but in associating with his inferiors,
a gentleman still knows how to maintain his dignity. There is no harm
in playing with inferiors, but it is necessary to a gentleman to play so
that he is not the laughing-stock of clowns."

Oliver hung his head, and made no answer. They came into the slovenly
precincts of the court, and the pigs stared at them from the palings, as
their progenitors had stared, years before, at Frank Hazeldean.

Mr. Leslie, senior, in a shabby straw-hat, was engaged in feeding the
chickens before the threshold, and he performed even that occupation
with a maundering lack-a-daisical slothfulness, dropping down the grains
almost one by one from his inert dreamy fingers.

Randal's sister, her hair still and forever hanging about her ears, was
seated on a rush-bottom chair, reading a tattered novel; and from the
parlour window was heard the querulous voice of Mrs. Leslie, in high
fidget and complaint.

Somehow or other, as the young heir to all this helpless poverty stood
in the courtyard, with his sharp, refined, intelligent features, and his
strange elegance of dress and aspect, one better comprehended how,
left solely to the egotism of his knowledge and his ambition, in such
a family, and without any of the sweet nameless lessons of Home, he had
grown up into such close and secret solitude of soul,--how the mind had
taken so little nutriment from the heart, and how that affection and
respect which the warm circle of the heart usually calls forth had
passed with him to the graves of dead f